


Read

by girl_wonder



Category: Dogma (1999)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-28
Updated: 2011-05-28
Packaged: 2017-10-19 20:40:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/204989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girl_wonder/pseuds/girl_wonder
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wisconsin, and they don't have the right peices for sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Read

Before words were written, before the first language put symbols to concepts, lines to sound, Bartleby read.

He learned the word of God. And he read it. He learned the words of Man. And he read it. He learned the words of Love. And he blinked and it was gone.

Now he reads the shape of Loki's shoulders, the perfection of his body. Loki curves into the morning sun, naked and shamed, but still throwing back his arms and wings as though he can reabsorb God into him as his skin is touched and loved by the sun.

In the first sunlight of a day without number, though he could number the day by days since creation, days since Eden, days since Wisconsin if he wanted to, he watches Loki arch himself to the image of the Word. Loki is a novel, a chapter, a sentence, a word, a morpheme, a phoneme, a letter.

When Loki looks over and smiles, Loki is the only word that Bartleby ever needs to read, ever needs to write, the only word that Bartleby can never find, can never say, can never know.

To ruin the moment, Bartleby wants to say, "Stop showing off." Or, "You know sloth is a deadly sin." Or, "You're too beautiful for words, now come down here so we can tease nuns."

When he comes down, his teeth as white as the feathers on his wings, he has one small down feather stuck in his hair. Bartleby pulls it out without a word, rolling his eyes and letting the wind take it away.

"Thanks, man," Loki says. "I keep forgetting to take care of them."

In heaven, Loki had flown with the most beautiful wings of any angel. When Loki's wings were fully extended, Bartleby had always known why men cowered in fear of him and called him the Angel of Death. Before, they had blocked out the sun and been perfect. Now, some of the remiges are bent, and down comes loose with every step that Loki takes.

"Here," Bartleby says. He gestures, and Loki follows him, as he followed him out of heaven, as he followed Bartleby from century to century. Loki trusts Bartleby, an enveloping trust that makes Bartleby feel comfortable and afraid and angry all at once.

At Bartleby's gesture, Loki turns all the way around and Bartleby uses the sunlight to see the damage. On the edges, there's some darkening filth coating the feathers, from years of clothing. Moving in he sees feathers that should have been pulled, down poking through and the muscles, the glorious muscles of Loki's back are bruised from the strain of holding his wings in so hard. There are marks from where he's used leather straps to keep them held down.

Bartleby silently traces the worn muscles with his fingers, and silence does not come naturally to him, but this, this is worship. Loki's wings have always inspired that. He does it again and watches the muscles move beneath his fingers. When he presses his fingers in, feeling the tenseness, the hard press of tight muscles, Loki makes a choked sound, like an inhaled sob.

He presses his fingers in hard, trying to dig out the pain of holding back this beauty from the world, of having to hold back this perfection for fear of some greater punishment than _this._

Loki sighs again, halfway between pain and pleasure, and leans forward to grasp at the railing of their balcony. Cautiously, Bartleby runs his fingers around the base of Loki's left wing, pressing lightly and then running his fingers up the stretch of skin over hard, thick bone. He feels the silk of the first feathers and digs his fingers a little of the way in, before tracing the long humerus until he feels the peak where the joint joins it to the ulna, tapering off until it's just feathers, thin and seemingly too inconsequential to ever hold Loki above the ground.

He pulls his hand back, running it through the wing proper. He didn't feel any breaks in the bones themselves, and he tries to keep it academic when he combs his fingers through the feathers, coming out with handfuls of down. Brushing off the feathers, he does it again, pulling out centuries of no flight, his hand powdery with the results of the powder down feathers. The powder kept Loki's wings dry through the first rainstorm, when he had stood out in it, shrieking with pleasure.

The wing is quivering under Bartleby's fingers when he brushes down to the tips, finding the most damaged flight feathers easily. He pulls them out one at a time, trying to be quick. He would say, "Shut up, you fucking baby. Take it like a fucking Angel, you wimp. They just don't build them like they used to," except the wings keep twisting just a little bit, tilting like Loki is gliding on some invisible thermal.

One final rub through and Bartleby is touching the flesh between Loki's wings again, seeing the discoloration of bruises is still there, the muscles straining with the effort to stay still.

On Loki's other wing, Bartleby checks again for damage, finds a small healed over break and rubs his thumb over it absently. It is old and if Bartleby rolls his eyes back and reads the words of Loki's body he'd find that it was from the great war, when Loki had taken a sword to his wing and fallen with the permanence of forever until he'd felt the touch of God, the injury healed and remembered now only in a small bump of healed bone.

Loki had once been one of God's favored.

The down is soft under Bartleby's sensitized fingers. He rubs the first remex he pulls out against his face and feels the history of it. He is pressing against his lips a feather which held Loki aloft above earth before it was Earth, above Eden before it was forbidden. Dropping the golden white feather, he pulls the rest out quickly.

When he presses his palm flat against the space between the two wings, he feels the jump quick flex of muscles beneath his hand. The skin is hot under his fingers, burning and he wants to press his cool lips to the soft ridges of Loki's spine, lick and bite until Loki stops remembering the pain of holding his wings back and only remembers the round, mouth-shaped bruises Bartleby wants to leave. He doesn't, instead pressing still lighter with his palm.

Loki is shaking hard now, making soft whining noises and sharp inhalations. Pushing himself away, Bartleby leaves him leaning head down against the railing, so that when Loki finally does turn around, Bartleby doesn't have to make a crude sharp comment about the tears dripping onto Loki's arms.

It is a new day, and Loki's wings are the sound of every word that has been written, they are the shape of words yet to be written, and the meaning of words that will never be conceived of.


End file.
